


The Magpie Laughs, Black upon the Orange-Trees

by Penknife



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masked Ball As An Excuse for Inadvisable Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 14:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20893493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/pseuds/Penknife
Summary: Aziraphale looks up at him through the eyeholes of that ridiculous mask. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”





	The Magpie Laughs, Black upon the Orange-Trees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hearthouses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthouses/gifts).

It’s not actually possible for Crowley to fail to recognize an angel. Not even at a masked ball, not even when the angel in question is masked and costumed and angling to catch his own reflection in mirrors as if congratulating himself on his brilliant disguise.

Crowley is immediately annoyed. He’s annoyed that Aziraphale is here, when he was looking forward to a good party free of the necessity to thwart anything. He’s annoyed that Aziraphale looks so ridiculously self-satisfied with his ridiculous disguise.

He’s annoyed that Aziraphale ought to look ridiculous; Crowley is wearing a stark black tabarro with a white mask decorated only by the gilded outline of a coiling serpent, and he still wonders if the serpent is a little too much. Aziraphale is wearing a cat’s mask, not actually with skirts, but with the most foppishly overdone men’s clothes imaginable, including a coat actually embellished with silken butterfly’s wings.

It ought to look ridiculous, and it doesn’t. Aziraphale ought to be unaware of what the cat’s mask conveys, being an angel who’s probably above such things, and just as obviously isn’t. His hair curls to his collar in ringlets, there’s a flush to his skin above his collar, and he looks—entirely unlike himself, and if that’s true, which of them is failing at disguise?

Crowley is moving before he can persuade himself it’s a bad idea. “You,” he says, in a voice that isn’t quite his own. “Angel.”

Aziraphale looks up at him through the eyeholes of that ridiculous mask. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

There is a sensible course of action, which is to ask Aziraphale what he’s playing at, work out who’s thwarting who, and maybe pass the time a bit before retreating to take their individual approaches to enjoying the evening. Crowley could find someone drunk who can be persuaded to get into trouble, and Aziraphale can eat sugared violets while flirting with every sodomite in Venice. He’ll get Aziraphale to explain later how that’s holy.

Instead, Crowley says, “How much introduction do you need?”

Aziraphale cocks one hip and angles his masked head down to look up demurely, and he should absolutely not know that maneuver. “I’m not sure I’d be in good hands.”

“I’m certain you wouldn’t be,” Crowley says. He is trying to remember how this dance goes, which is a struggle both because he doesn’t actually make a habit of seducing people—normally he’s happier to prod other people into seducing whoever will wreak the most havoc—and because it’s uncharacteristically hard to think straight. “Where do you want to go?”

Aziraphale looks as if he hasn’t actually thought that far ahead. Maybe they’re just playing a game. If so, Crowley intends to play to win.

“Outside,” Crowley says. “Now.”

He steers Aziraphale out into the courtyard, where the scent of crushed orange blossoms mingles with the smell of spilled drinks and perfume and sweat. It’s an inner courtyard, with intentional pools of shadow where people can make drunken bad decisions.

Pressing Aziraphale up against the wall is definitely a bad decision. So is Aziraphale turning his mouth up hungrily to Crowley’s. Crowley kisses him like it’s a way for them to fight. Some part of him thinks the touch ought to sear his skin, but Aziraphale’s mouth is only warm under his own.

“We shouldn’t,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley isn’t sure if that’s part of the game or not.

“You’re right,” he says, and grinds his hips against Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale arches against him hungrily, as if he were what he probably seems to the humans around him—a flushed and foolish man, not as young as he'd like people to believe, but with an infectious delight in his own daring—

Aziraphale has his hands under Crowley’s cloak, tugging at fabric to bare more skin, and then he bends his head to Crowley’s collarbone and _bites_, and Crowley makes a noise he’s fairly certain doesn’t sound human.

“Is that what you like?” Aziraphale says archly.

“You don’t know what I like,” Crowley says. “You don’t know me.”

“No, I don’t,” Aziraphale says, and leans back against the wall.

Crowley pursues, getting Aziraphale’s thigh between his own, taking handfuls of that ridiculous coat. He’s crushing butterflies in his hands, and Aziraphale’s mouth tastes of some liqueur that’s far too sweet, and they’re trying to fuck each other through their clothes with equal desperation.

It’s a human thing, and comes with human limitations. Before he has any thought of wanting this to end, he realizes that the bruising pleasure is building to an unavoidable conclusion. It’s not an entirely comfortable sensation, knowing that if they keep this up he can’t decide whether, can’t even decide when—

He comes with a snarl. Aziraphale has hold of handfuls of black fabric and isn’t letting go, drawing him down to kiss him before Crowley can get his breath. He draws a shuddering breath against Aziraphale’s lips.

And then Aziraphale spreads his hand on Crowley’s chest to put a hand’s-width of distance between them. “I hope I haven’t led you astray,” he says.

There is a moment where all of the things Crowley can think of to say are shatteringly inappropriate. “You’d find that hard to do,” he says finally.

“I suppose I would.” His tone is more sober, as if they’re dangerously close to having an actual conversation. That’s not something Crowley can stand.

“Keep up the good work,” he says, and walks away, crushing orange blossoms underneath his feet. 


End file.
